Horatio and Carolina
by Neteret
Summary: She sees what Horatio Caine can't admit to and helps him.


These stories are still part of Horatio's Harem, but they are now being listed separately. 

CSI: Miami

Horatio/oc

Disclaimer: I own nothing of CSI: Miami, I do not know anyone connected with the show or with CBS and they do not know me, all of which is a shame.

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The day had passed in a soggy red haze. Even while giving a talk to the students from Finland about collecting and preserving fingerprints, Horatio's thoughts were of the day before, how the muzzle of his gun had looked against the back of the sniper's skull, how he'd watched the man's finger tighten on the trigger, had given him ample warning before shooting. In retrospect, his shot, though righteous, had been a cold-blooded act, like an execution; it had been a necessary kill, had saved another man's life, but still…

He eased himself onto the bar stool beside Tripp and ordered coffee. Frank, glancing at him companionably, signaled the bartender for another drink. Neither of the men said anything to the other over the next hour; there was no need for conversation between the two; sitting in friendly silence in the calming gloom, was enough.

On his way out of the bar, when he was accosted by Carolina, he was, at first, a little angry and then certainly uncomfortable. She'd been among the students from that day who were doing a graduate program in forensics, and aside from the fact that she was rather attractive, he remembered her because of her odd inquiry. After he'd finished his talk, she'd asked how often he drew his weapon and whether he could do a demonstration for the group. For the life of him, he couldn't imagine why she'd asked a question so far from the subject at hand. He'd answered vaguely, telling her he did it as seldom as possible and only to save a life, and remembered the way she'd nodded, as if his answer confirmed some other information she had. How he thought the other information was not related to guns, he didn't know, but he was certain of it.

Obviously proud of herself, she said, "I just wanted to see if I could follow someone in an unfamiliar area." Then she'd reproved, "And besides, what disturbs you is not that I did it, but that you were so unaware." Next, she pleaded to be allowed to take him to dinner to make up for the subterfuge and explain her technique, and countered his refusal with, "I also wondered if I could question you about that reverse fingerprint detail you talked about, where a print is transferred to an object, and then filled in with a substance such as blood. I don't quite understand how to recognize those." She showed a spiral ring notebook. "I brought this so I can take notes." Chin down, a bright blue eye peeked provocatively upward through long blond hair, as she pleaded prettily, "Please, sir, we're just two criminalists, exchanging information."

In the restaurant booth, after having been so forward, he almost expected her to try to sit on his lap. Instead, she sat on the other side of the semi-circular table, placing her large purse in the space between them. Deftly drawing rather small figures on a blank page in her notebook, as she spoke quietly, she revealed that she'd learned her shadowing methods from an Israeli who'd once been with the Musaad. He became so completely engrossed in her explanation about how to place oneself in relation to the subject under a variety of conditions, that several times, he leaned so far over the table he nearly had his shirtfront into his salad. He finally realized that the closer to her he got, the lower her voice became, and he recognized the game as one he and Ray used to play on each other as kids. When he sat back, she stopped talking entirely, patiently smiling at him, a quisitive look on her face. To prevent him from only pretending he heard what she said, she asked questions, once in a while. He knew that to ask her to raise her voice would be an excuse for her to lower it, as a power point. Ray always won at this game, too.

To show he was a far better person than to do it in return, he spoke clearly, as he explained how to identify the fingerprint copy. He couldn't help but note the smug smile she displayed throughout his explanation. It was the same sort of thing his brother would have done, as if not being done unto signified victory in some way. The game was strangely seductive when played with a lovely woman.

After the lecture exchange, she immediately inquired about whether he liked sports, her eyes gleaming fanatically. When he cautiously admitted he enjoyed basketball, both to play and to watch, she seemed slightly disappointed.

"Basketball isn't a bad game but, I prefer more active sports like hockey or even lacrosse."

The idea that she liked games played with weapons crossed his mind. He asked if she'd ever seen Jai Alai and described it as, "A sort of a cross between handball and racquetball on steroids." Before he knew it, he was paying for two stadium seats at the Miami Jai Alai fronton near the Miami International Airport. Horatio wasn't sure which he enjoyed more that evening, the win of one of his favorite doubles teams or Carolina's wild enthusiasm.

A couple of hours later, they were walking on the beach, near her hotel. Staring out to the ocean surf, lit from the bright lights along the walkway, she suddenly said, "Have you ever thought of using your pistol on yourself? Just ending it all, I mean?"

"Excuse me?"

"No, I don't imagine you have, have you? You have to deal with death all of the time in your work but you'd never apply it to yourself. Yet, you are…" she paused, never taking her eyes off of the horizon, dotted with ships' lights. "There was something in the way you spoke this afternoon that told me you're very thoughtful about death; not in what you said, but how you said it." Her voice trailed off as she let out a long shuddering sigh. "I'm talking this way because of the dark. That's why I came on this trip. I wasn't much interested in more forensics as getting away from the long, cold nights at home."

He couldn't say why he did it, but he moved closely behind her and wrapped his arms around her shoulders. "Why don't I take you to your hotel so you can get to sleep? I'll come pick you up early tomorrow morning, for breakfast, when the sun is shining."

Turning in his arms to face him, she looked up. "Thank you. I'd like that." For a minute, he thought she was going to reach up to kiss him but she only smiled a little, broke from his arms, and walked away. He followed, thoughtfully watching her very feminine hips sway in an exaggerated fashion as she made her way through the sand.

The next morning, half way through their breakfast, the sunshine-bright Carolina returned to the subject of the previous evening. "I surprised you with my question, last night, didn't I? It wasn't all due to the darkness, you know. I guess I was responding to some of the things you'd said during your lecture. The way you looked, as you spoke, I sensed a kindred spirit. Isn't part of forensics being observant, even of human behavior? I mean, you were thinking of death, weren't you?"

Horatio didn't quite know what to say, how to reply, so he just looked at her, his auburn brows arching onto his forehead.

"I suppose I'm curious how you deal with your depression." She looked at him with a half smile on her face. "How do I know that you have depression to deal with? Because the suicide rate in Finland is second only to that in Japan, which is the highest in the world. Most people commit suicide because of depression. As a Finn I was born depressed, so, I know it when I see it." She glanced up in annoyance at the waitress who seemed more interested in the dialogue than the cup she was refilling. "Not great breakfast conversation in a public place, is it?"

Dropping his chin, his lips twitched in agreement.

Carolina reached across the table to touch his fingers as they closed around the coffee cup. "Yesterday, while you were talking, I could see, as certainly as I see your red hair, that depression is like an old friend for you." Noticing he'd checked his watch, she smiled. "Oh, it's getting time to go for the day, isn't it? Could we get together this evening?"

Not making any promises, he asked her to call in the late afternoon and spent the rest of the day hoping nothing would keep him away from this compellingly interesting woman.

That night, as they sat on the beach under a moonless sky, she offered, "How would you like to come with me to examine the colors of the moss in my basement?"

"What basement is that?"

"For me, being depressed is being in a very dark, dank basement with walls of ancient stone. The moss growing on the stone is the kind that glows in sickly colors. When I'm feeling dark and dank, I go down and sit on the bottom step of the wooden stairs, and stare at the weird colors."

He asked if it helped and she replied, "I don't think so, but that isn't the point." She looked confused. "Or maybe it is. Perhaps it's just a way of seeing the sadness rather than fighting it, a way to not spiral down into real clinical depression and then do myself harm. It's safer than antidepressant drugs, that's for sure" In spite of her words, the tone of her voice was light. "I thought that if I showed you mine, you'd find where you have yours. Later, we might be able to share what we see."

"I'm sorry, but I'm still not sure of what you mean."

She scooted closer to him and whispered under the quiet sound of the waves brushing the beach, "I think that being depressed is a form of craziness. My own theory is that all Finns are crazy," she waggled her hand, "or depressed, either way, because of the extreme cold and the dark we endure. Therefore, as an authority on the subject, I'm suggesting a way to deal with yours." She rose up and kissed his ear, brushing it lightly with her tongue, sending a thrill down his spine. The bright lights from the beachfront walk illuminated her ghostly pale features as she smiled mischievously. "Besides, I find discussing the matter an interesting form of foreplay."

As he cocked an eyebrow at her, she went on, "Lovemaking is another way to deal with depression like ours. It can act as a kind of mutual therapy."

A couple of hours later, in her hotel room, he heard her murmur against his bare shoulder, "I don't think I'm going to need to go into my basement for a while. How about you?"

He now understood more clearly what she had meant. Sated, relaxed, he asked, "What basement is that?"

The End


End file.
